


Make a List

by accidentallyonpurpose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotions, M/M, Mycroft Has A Heart, Paternal Lestrade, Spoilers for The Abominable Bride, Vomiting, and it's sherlock, based on tab, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft fetches Sherlock from a drug den, not for the first time. This prompts a specific request from Mycroft.</p><p>This story contains minor spoilers from The Abominable bride. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make a List

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comment if you are so inclined, I do appreciate it!

The stench of human waste and unwashed bodies pressed against Mycroft’s nose and eyes as he entered the unlit building. It was just past evening on a warm summer’s day, and the heat was not helping the smell. Mycroft resisted the urge to dig a handkerchief from out of his pocket and press it to his nose, feeling that he might need both hands at any moment. He could feel the weight of several pairs of eyes on him, some of them blearier than others. He stood in the dimly lit foyer of a dilapidated house, a few bodies scattered around him. A skinny, bedraggled girl approached him, abandoning her post on a stool in a corner.  
“Can I help ya?”  
“I’m looking for my brother,” Mycroft answered, looking his nose down on her. “Tall, skinny. Curly black hair. Probably insulted everyone on his way in.”  
“Upstairs,” she said uninterestedly. “It’ll cost ya.” She crossed her arms and stood her ground.   
“Will forty pounds suit?” Mycroft asked. The girl gave him a once over.   
“You got any more tucked away in that posh suit of yours?”  
“Fine, fifty.”  
“That’ll do just fine,” she replied, holding her hand out invitingly. Mycroft dug in his pocket and pulled out the fifty pounds, quickly handing it over.   
“Which room?” he asked the girl.  
“That’ll be another twenty pounds.”  
“Oh, never mind.” Mycroft pushed his way past the girl and quickly ran up the staircase located behind her. When he reached the top he was faced with four doors equally spaced down a narrow hallway. Turning to the left, he opened the first door and was greeted with the sight of a man and a woman, naked and entangled on a bed, eyes clouded and smiles on both their faces. The room was barely bigger than the bed and did not contain Sherlock. Quickly Mycroft closed the door and continued down to the next door. Opening this one, he was engulfed in a haze of smoke and dust. Through the haze he could make out an expansive room populated by more people than should have been populating it, forms laid out on the floor, draped on furniture or sat up, administering their release. Mycroft’s eyes flicked quickly over the various forms, searching desperately for the one head of hair that mattered to him.   
“Come on, Sherlock, please,” he muttered under his breath, picking his way around various figures. “Don’t be dead, Mummy will be so upset.” Reaching the wall opposite the door, Mycroft was about to turn and try the next room when he noticed a familiar form laid up against a wall, arm draped out to the side. His curls were sweat-slicked and stuck to his pale forehead, and his eyes were closed as he trembled where he lay.   
“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed, heart clenching painfully as he perched himself on the edge of the mat that Sherlock was stretched out on. “Sherlock, wake up.” Reaching out, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and shook it, hard. “Sherlock.” His voice gained a tint of desperation.   
Blearily Sherlock opened his eyes, trying to focus on the fuzzy form in front of him. “Wha…“ He squinted and craned his neck, trying to pull Mycroft into focus.  
“Sherlock Holmes, you wake up this instance. You are not allowed to die.”  
“Not… goin’… die,” he rasped.  
“Damn right you’re not. You stay with me now, alright?” Sherlock didn’t answer, but let his head fall back onto the mat and his eyes close. “Sherlock, no. You look at me.” Mycroft reached behind him and ripped off his suit jacket, bunching it up and shoving it under Sherlock’s head. “There, Sherlock, look at me.” Mycroft gently slapped the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes slitted open once more. “That’s it. What was it this time?”  
“Co…caine. And… Morphine. Some pot.” Sherlock’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but Mycroft had no trouble hearing it over the soft sounds of the other occupants’ breathing. The bottom of Mycroft’s stomach dropped out. Although this wasn’t the first time he had had to fish his brother from a den, it was the most he had taken at one time.  
“Anything else?”  
“Mmm… Alc’ol.”  
“Alcohol? Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft tenderly wiped the sweat off of Sherlock’s brow, pushing his bangs to the side in the process. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?”  
“Four?”  
“Four hours, or you came around four?”  
“Around four.”  
Mycroft glanced at his watch. “You’ve been here a little over three hours then. Did you take all the drugs at once?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock closed his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled over him, taking a deep breath in sharply through his nose.  
“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice floated through the haze of smoke and dimply entered Sherlock’s ears. “Are you still with me?” Suddenly the nausea dug it’s claws into Sherlock’s stomach and he leaned over and was violently ill beside the mat.  
“Yes, I suppose I should have expected that. You looked a bit green.” Gingerly Mycroft reached out and ran a hand up and down the thin material covering Sherlock’s sweat-drenched back. “There you are.” With an empty stomach, Sherlock felt more able to concentrate.   
“Home?” he asked Mycroft.  
“Yes, let’s get you home. Do you think you can manage the stairs now?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock rolled into his side once more and pushed up, getting himself into a sitting position. Silently Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock, supporting him. They rested there for a moment, Sherlock’s head lolling onto Mycroft’s shoulder as he closed his eyes again.  
“Good?”  
“Mm-hm.” Sherlock nodded his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. Reaching around him, Mycroft picked up his jacket and slung it over the thin dress shirt Sherlock was wearing,   
“Okay, up we get.” Supporting his baby brother, Mycroft stood and brought Sherlock with him, propping him up with his arm. Slowly they made their way around the other people and out the door, reaching the top of the staircase.   
“I can’t,” Sherlock suddenly dug his heels in the ground. “I can’t do the stairs.”  
“Come, Sherlock, we’re almost there. You can do it.”  
“No-“ Turning green once more, Sherlock stumbled to a corner and dry heaved, bringing up clear bile that dripped slowly to the floor.   
“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed sympathetically, going over to his brother and placing a supportive hand on his back. Leaning against the wall, Sherlock just panted, trying to get his breath back. “Let’s try again,” Mycroft said after a couple of minutes of them resting. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but did not complain when Mycroft once again wrapped his arm around Sherlock and brought him to the staircase. Sherlock’s face crumpled as he looked at the tall staircase in front of them.  
“I can’t My.” He cried softly, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Sorry My, I’m so sorry. I can’t. I can’t.” Mycroft wrapped both arms around Sherlock and pulled him close, laying a kiss on top of his curls.  
“I forgive you. Always. I will always look out for you.” He let that sit in the air for a moment. “Now, can you put your arms around my neck?” With tears still coursing down his cheeks, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “Hold on,” he cautioned before placing one arm behind Sherlock’s back and the other at his knees. Scooping Sherlock up, Mycroft mentally noted how shockingly light Sherlock was. Carefully he picked his way down the stairs, cautious of trying not to knock Sherlock into the narrow walls lining the staircase. Continuing out the door, Mycroft didn’t look back, heading straight for the car parked in front of the crack house. Sliding Sherlock into the passenger’s side, Mycroft reached around and did up Sherlock’s seatbelt before making his way to the other side of the car and getting in his seat. The drive to the flat was quiet, soft classical music making it’s way out of the car speakers. When they arrived, Mycroft parked and got Sherlock out of the car and into the first floor flat. Sherlock leaned heavily on him as they made their way to the couch, where Sherlock dropped unceremoniously and stretched out, tucking his face into the pillow. Mycroft left him there and went to get a glass of water for Sherlock. When he returned Sherlock had not moved, so Mycroft dropped the water onto the small table in front of the sofa and reached for the blanket draped over the back, covering Sherlock in it. Then he stood and just watched his brother breathe until the door to the flat opened.  
“Hey, I’m home!” came a deep voice from the front and the smell of takeaway preceded Lestrade into the living area. “How was your- oh, love. You had to pick him up again?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft sighed, automatically reaching to his fiancé for support. Greg placed the food on the ground and reached out for Mycroft, wrapping his arms tightly around him.   
“I’m so sorry, love.”   
“Me too.”   
“I can hear you, you know,” Sherlock rasped from the couch, not bothering to open his eyes.  
“Good,” Greg responded, rounding on Sherlock’s prone form on the couch. “You’re sixteen for Christ sake, Sherlock. Your brother shouldn’t have to be picking you up at drug dens.” He turned to his lover. “And he shouldn’t be doing it alone, either.” Rolling his sleeves up, Greg made his way to the couch and put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead.   
“I don’t want to jeopardize your police force career, Gregory. Dragging you into drug dens would most certainly do that.” Mycroft turned away from Greg’s sad eyes and focused instead on Sherlock, watching as Greg ran his hand soothingly through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock glared weakly at Greg.  
“Oh bugger off and enjoy it,” Greg replied. “Can you manage a drink of water?”  
Sherlock heaved a world weary sigh. “Yes.” Greg hooked one arm behind Sherlock, helping him lift his torso while grabbing the glass of water with the other hand. Lifting the glass to Sherlock’s lips, he helped him take a sip of water.  
“Good boy,” Greg smiled softly as he lifted the glass once more to Sherlock’s lips. “That’s good for now.” He replaced the glass on the table and gently laid Sherlock back down. “Sleep, now.” He brushed his fingers once more over Sherlock’s hair. Mycroft’s heart tore a little bit at the tender sight in front of him. His Gregory was more able to show his affection towards Sherlock than he ever knew how. Mycroft took a deep breath.  
“Next time, brother dear, make a list of what drugs you’ve taken. That way, if we can’t wake you, we’ll know.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer.   
“Sherlock?” Greg put his hand over Sherlock’s.  
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, shifting his hand under the blanket and out of reach.  
“Promise me,” Mycroft insisted.  
“I promise.”


End file.
